Page 110 of Dial F for Finance

“I heard her,” her father snaps. “She wants to stay. She always wants to stay. That doesn’t mean she’s equipped to assess the risk.”

The words land like a slap. Hannah’s hands drop to her lap, and her face crumples in a way that hurts my soul. It’s the devastation of someone who’s been dismissed so many times she’s learned to expect it.

The room fractures into noise. But it’s Dominic’s voice that rises above the din.

“Enough,” he booms.

Hannah’s father stops mid-breath. Esteban’s mouth closes. Even Helena, who was reaching for Dustin, goes still.

“We’re not doing this,” he says. “Not like this. Not with Hannah sitting right here while you talk about her like she’s furniture.”

Hannah’s father opens his mouth, but Dominic holds up one hand—not a request for silence, just a statement that he’s not finished.

“Your daughter has been signing for ten minutes,” Dominic says. “You’ve looked at her twice. You’ve answered her zero times. If you want to discuss her safety, you start with her voice. Or you don’t start at all.”

The program director clears her throat, a small sound that somehow cuts through the tension. “Perhaps,” she says carefully, “we should take a brief pause. Fifteen minutes. Everyone can collect themselves, and we can resume with a clearer structure.”

She’s looking at Dominic when she says it, reading him the way I’ve learned to read him—the stillness that means he’s calculating seven moves ahead, the set of his jaw that means he’s already decided which bridges he’s willing to burn.

“Fine,” Hannah’s father says, but he’s already losing conviction, the righteousness draining from his posture as he looks at his daughter’s face for what might be the first time since he arrived.

Hannah doesn’t move. Her hands stay folded in her lap, but her eyes are on Dominic, something complicated moving through her expression—gratitude, maybe, or recognition. Someone finally saw what was happening to her.

Dustin is the first to break, his shoulders shaking with a sob he’s been holding since he pushed up from that couch. Helena folds him into her arms with a ferocity that makes my throat tight.

I move to Dominic’s side without deciding to, my hand finding his elbow, my thumb pressing into the tension there. He doesn’t look at me, but his hand covers mine, holding me in place like I’m the thing keeping him from saying something worse.

“Fifteen minutes,” the program director repeats, already gathering her folders. “Kitchen’s available. There’s coffee.”

People disperse in fragments—Hannah’s mother touching her daughter’s shoulder and being shrugged off, Esteban muttering something in Spanish that sounds like prayer and profanity mixed together. Hannah stays seated, her hands finally moving again, signing something to Dustin that makes him nod against his mother’s shoulder.

Dominic and I hang back a moment as the room empties out. Dominic releases my hand, his posture instantly shifting as he catches the program director just as she reaches the hallway threshold.

“I apologize for my parents, and for the escalation,” he says, his voice perfectly modulated. “Emotions are running high, understandably. But before we sit back down to litigate my brother’s relationship, I’d like a moment to speak with you privately about the facility’s security issues.”

The director pauses, her clipboard pressed tightly to her chest. “Mr. Cruz, our security protocols are standard for a supported-independence tier⁠—”

“And they were breached,” Dominic counters smoothly, leaving absolutely no room for debate. “Which exposes Round Hill to a significant liability threat from Hannah’s family. I have a proposal that addresses your physical security gaps and entirely neutralizes that liability, without requiring a punitive transfer for any resident. Just you and me, five minutes, before we return to the personal issues at stake.”

She studies him for a long moment. I see the exact second she concedes.

“Five minutes,” she agrees, nodding toward the corridor. “My office is just down the hall.”

I step back, giving him the space to execute the strategy we drafted at three in the morning. “I’ll go check on your family,” I tell him quietly.

The corporate mask drops for exactly one second. He looks down at me, the rigid tension around his eyes easing just a fraction as genuine gratitude bleeds through. “Thank you, Jen,” he murmurs. He leans in, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the side of my temple before turning to follow the director down the hall.

The kitchen of Round Hill House’s administrative wing is aggressively beige, a sterile contrast to the heavy emotional weather of the morning. I find Esteban pacing near the industrial refrigerator while Helena leans against the counter, her hands covering her face.

I don’t offer empty platitudes. I have no authority here, no biological right to insert myself into a decades-long family dynamic. But I do know how to execute a beverage service, and right now, I desperately need the utility of a task. I pull paper cups from a dispenser and locate the commercial coffee machine and a box of assorted teas.

As I work, pouring hot water and tearing sugar packets, I keep my thoughts strictly compartmentalized. I understand Hannah’s parents’ fear. Risk mitigation is my entire career; I know exactly how terrifying a broken protocol can be when it involves someone you love. But their panic is causing collateral damage, and I find myself wishing everyone in that conference room could just find a clearer head before permanent fractures form.

I hand Esteban a black coffee and press a cup of chamomile tea into Helena’s trembling hands.

“Thank you, Jenna,” Helena murmurs, offering a fragile smile.

I load three more cups into a cardboard carrier and slip out the back door into the facility’s courtyard. The afternoon sunshine is stark and bright. Dustin and Hannah are sitting on a wooden bench beneath a sprawling oak tree. Hannah’s mother stands a few yards away, her arms tightly crossed over her chest as she watches them with a heavy, conflicted expression.